Summary: In 2008, Dean takes over his late grandfather’s tailor shop in Normal, Illinois, and discovers an old leather flight jacket in the attic. A hand-painted set of wings on the back, the name Novak, and a three-quarters sewn circle of red cotton are the only clues he has to the jacket’s origins, and he enlists his historian brother to help him find the owner.
It doesn’t take long for Sam to trace the jacket to Lieutenant Castiel Novak–a pilot who lived in Dean’s apartment until his mysterious disappearance a few years after WWII–and what little information they find about him is fascinating. The guy was a stone cold badass. A stone cold fox, too, if the grainy old newspaper photo is anything to go by.
It’s to be expected that Dean idly wishes he could have known the man as he closes the annoyingly unfinished circle of thread on the jacket.
When Sansa had been little, just a wee thing, no taller than the top of Jory’s high boot, her hand had fit comfortably in her brother’s palm.
When she would fall forward into powdery white, chubby knees protected by skirts and snow, she’d get to her feet, giggles dying in her throat as she looked down at her wet dress. Her eyes would burn as she patted uselessly at the darkening wool.
And while the others would keep playing, the shrieks of the young echoing off strong-backed trees, her brother would bend down to one knee, take her cold hand in his and tell her not to fear, that water will dry just as tears do.
((A collaboration with @ask-aph-fruk I hope you like it! She’ll basically be illustrating this fic!))
A soft, gentle light gently cascaded into the living room with a sort of grace that only someone who was honestly cruel could hate. And even through his rather bitter and tough skin, Arthur wasn’t quite as cruel as that.
A sheet of silk was weaved tightly into a wooden embroidery circle as Arthur poked and pulled his needle with such precision as the Englishman was. The scene being stitched into the sheet of delicate fabric was a quaint, homey one that brought the thought of camping to his mind, with a large mountain bottomed by a bright blue lake with a shore of trees.
Arthur’s eyes did not faulter, even when he heard rushed footsteps racing down the stairs of his home.
“A-Angleterre,” Francis panted, and his chest heaved with the distress of trying to catch his breath. “I a-am sorry that I have to leave so soon from our visit here, but my boss has called me back to France on an emergency..”
Only now did Arthur’s eyes lift from his project. He would never really admit it, but he was slightly saddened by France’s words. However, with his pride, he shrugged off the rather silly emotion with a scoff. “Hmph. Very well then, it’s not like I expected anything more from you.”
The Frenchman straightened up his build, and looked at England. “It is not like I chose to do this, you know? I’m sorry, lapin, and I promise to make it to you somehow.”
“You can make it up to me by leaving.” Arthur rolled his eyes, and continued his work. Francis had to force down the grin that was rising in his throat, and he spoke.
“…I’m afraid you’ve forgotten that you’re my means of transportation when I’m here in London.”
Arthur paused, and let out a rather annoyed sigh as he stuck his needle twice through the tight fabric to keep it secure, and slipped the piece back into his threadbox. “Very well, then.” Arthur straightened out the few wrinkles in the pistachio-colored sweater he wore, standing up.
The car ride to the airport was rather silent, and Francis did his best to speak without smiling. Arthur simply drove, ignoring most of France’s comments, before arriving at the airport with him. “Have a nice trip.”
France’s face turned into a look of falsified sadness, and offence. “Aren’t you going to watch my plane take off, lapin?”
Arthur sighed, and let his head fall forward onto the steering wheel, before once again repeating his earlier statement; “Very well, then.”
The lobby of the airport was busy, as most airports were. Arthur sat on one of the couches after buying himself a bottle of water, and he watched France at the reception desk to recieve his tickets and be passed onto safety checks.
England sighed, now sitting in silence. He didn’t know why he was still sitting there, frankly. France wouldn’t notice if he left. But there was a feeling somewhere within his gut, that just told him to sit.
He soon found himself chatting with people. Some were annoyed, and some were emotional. He remembers one particular woman who simply sat and cried on his shoulder, despite his protest, because her son had departed to his new home in France.
After his short, yet somewhat dandy conversations with these strangely nosy strangers had ended, England was bored enough to watch the small security screen that showed the small tunnel in which people boarded the plane.
Though, something was different. Francis was walking backwards, and several people around him were carrying signs by their sides. On the outside of the tunnel, another camera followed France onto the asphalt of the landing strip, along with the sign holders.
Arthur watched curiously, as Francis stood in front of these people, as they lined up side by side behind him. The first lifted the sign. And then the second. And then the third. And finally, the last.
And the message was clear.
“Will you marry me?”
Every inch of England’s body was immediately thrown into paralysis, and he found his eyes tearing up a bit as he stared in awe at the screen. When he felt hands on his shoulders, he wiped the building tears furiously away, forcing his vision away from the screen.
He paced the lobby furiously as people congratulated him. But there was one question on Arthur’s mind; How would he give the other his answer?
The resolution came when he heard a familiar voice, and all at once, emotions flooded him one by one. He was angry, he was sad, he was shocked. But soon those emotions were bubbled over by elation, (with a sassy side of salty pride), and he simply nodded quickly in Francis’ direction.
Francis had accepted the small “Congrats!” or “Have a nice marriage!“s, from the strangers and staff in the lobby, on his way back out to Arthur’s car. And, boy, as soon as they were in the car, it was the waterworks.
Arthur leaned against Francis, sniffling and glaring up at him. "H-How dare you diminish me t-to tears in public..! You c-cheeky bastard..!”
France only laughed in response, and his fingers graced England’s hair. “You know, lapin, even if you had said no..”
Arthur looked up in curiousity, sniffling. “Mm..?”
Francis slowly grinned, looking down at him. “Your reaction was perfect~”
“Oh shut it! You’re a right pillock!” Arthur huffed, which lead to more laughter, and tickling, and kisses, and, thankfully, a happy marriage.
A happy marriage that blossomed from war and decay, into an airport induced proposal.
So I think I have the interlace worked out to make this nearly connect up right? It takes 5 circles for the core, 7 for the structure of a repeat to show, and they’re laced as a four-ring around the center and a three-ring (past, present, future) along what’s going to be the repeat axis. (About half gets chopped off the non repeat axis to make the fill but I had to have the whole circle in place to work out the lacing.) Got started on the void patterning, looked at the clock, said oh bugger there is work to be done tomorrow…. anyway, progress towards a literal linear circle embroidery pattern for @deadcatwithaflamethrower and @jabberwockypie? More in a couple days? :)
CIRCULAR DIAGRAMS / pencil and oil on paper, 44 x 50 cm, 2015.
In my youth
at the school, certain lessons were inevitably boring. When the distraction peered,
inadvertently I began to scribble the pages of the books, filling with drawings
their blank borders. The hour of history, or philosophy, gave easy ideas: I
copied the portraits of philosophers illustrating the beginning of each chapter
in the textbook. The math class gave beautiful diagrams: their geometries structured
the space, providing backgrounds to fill with decorations, figures, pictures.
Maybe it was the insight that those same geometry hid himself a sort of aesthetics,
an inexplicable and axiomatic beauty, like when we are aware of it in front of nature,
without being able to give it an explanation. This sort
of drawings make me think of a kind of prayer, a repetitive but pleasant action,
like the work of an embroiderer, like a spider weaving its web.
So, I’ve been working on this embroidery, and even though it’s from a Game of Thrones cosplay, I keep having Sandry, from Tamora Pierce’s Circle of Magic books, feels. It’s my first time doing embroidery, so perhaps that’s why. I dunno.
I’ve always empathized more with Tris than with any of the rest of the four (I’m bookish, socially awkard, wear glasses, and have a temper that’s prone to lashing out even at people I like), so the sense of Sandry that has pervaded this current costuming project is new. But, anyway, the dragon scale smocking, and the embroidery like pebbled dragon skin, it gave me the idea that maybe Sandry would work such things into clothing for her foster siblings, to enact magical protections and the like. A sort of cloth armor, resistant to fires and the slash of a blade, even as dragon hide must surely be. I know she does similar stuff (protective spells woven into the cloth, etc), but how much cooler would they all look, decked out in scale-work like this?